


Darling, Are You Going to Leave Me?

by pendragonfics



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Accidental Baby Acquisition, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Babies, Break Up, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Female Reader, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Frank Castle Angst, Frank Castle Cares, Heavy Angst, Idiots in Love, Infertility, Minor Character Death, Swearing, Vigilantism, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:47:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23092084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pendragonfics/pseuds/pendragonfics
Summary: After trying for a while, and finding negative test results for fertility, Frank and ________ hit a rough spot, and split. But that doesn't slow her down: she turns to a life of vigilantism, becoming East Wind, a courier to those in need. However, not all nights are as rough as this one on the job...
Relationships: Frank Castle/Reader, Frank Castle/You
Kudos: 29





	1. i

**Author's Note:**

> I legit had a dream about this. So I wrote it.

The worst pain of all came across you when the conversation ended. It could have been all shouting, for how sadly you felt, but it had only been words shared at barely above a whisper. Claire had taken a sample of your reproductive product and anonymously, the same from Frank. That had happened a month ago and now having read the information revealed, it felt like a noose had lowered from the ceiling above and was slowly stringing you above.

“Say something,” you whisper, throat thick. Frank kept quiet.

The apartment groaned with the wind outside, and Max whined at your feet and inched toward your feet, which even in socks, felt as cold as death itself. It was a feeling that you somewhat wished for, in the silence waiting for Frank to share what he had read silently on the paper. It had been two or more years since cohabitation and a little less than that since you had first fallen for him, the man that most knew as the Punisher.

“…” He looked up but said nothing. A hand wiped across his face, and it was then you noticed that it was bristly with multiple days' worth of stubble across his chin. He took a deep breath, and then, gravelly, he spoke, “…’m sorry.”

You blink, unsure of what he means. “Frank?”

You move to him. He had chosen to sit on the coffee table - a salvaged chunk of timber from an alley, and you on the dilapidated couch, but as you slide to the edge, he stands, leaving the paper with the test results that he had read from.

But he’s already in the fridge and has cracked open a can by the time you read the paper. When you look up, he’s downed nearly all of it, and while you know he’s not usually one to drink, it must be bad. You know it is, but that’s only because now you’ve read the results.

You don’t quite understand what all the jargon means, but if you read into it...your sample is good, apparently normal. But Frank’s isn’t. He was sample B, and it seems that from what you understand that -

“You deserve someone who can give you what you want,” his voice is shaky, unsure, and looking to Frank, you’re sure that what he’s saying is not what you want to hear. But he doesn’t let you interrupt, and cracking the tab of another beer, he stares off at the other end of the room. “I’m - I’m not good for you, babe.”

“There has to be another way,” you try reasoning.

“I can’t put you through all that, ________ - you deserve the world -,”

“Oh, fuck the world!” you cry. The paper is crushed in your hands, and you sink back to the couch. "I want you!"

But the night didn't end that way. He didn't hear your words as pleas, and you perhaps didn't get through to him, because in the next day, you had gathered your things from his dresser, and took yourself to a hostel in Hoboken for cheap. It hadn't ended with a fist through a wall, just enough tears to have a hard time finding your Lyft. By the time you manage to find sleep, you can’t help but feel like you’ve been suffocating all evening, and by the time morning comes, your cheeks are wettened still.

* * *

In a year, you are stronger, and not just physically. The days where you find yourself caught on the opening line of the news broadcasts are few and far between, and the name of the man you had loved, trusted and fought for is no longer on your lips. Spider-Man looks over Brooklyn, Luke Cage is known as Power Man in Harlem, and there’s no reason to return to Hell’s Kitchen when Daredevil prowls the district. There’s a trickle of information that comes from the whisper trail you keep, and when you hear that he nears your operation, you pick up and leave to another place.

You’re no superhero, but to some people, you are a hero. Dressed your signature hoodie and jeans - being inconspicuous is best - you’re essentially a ferry to remove people from bad situations. It’s mostly kids from abusive households, victims from other heroes’ exploits that you lend a hand in helping. They’re people, vulnerable people, and every day when you feel like quitting, when it’s too hard, you remind yourself that it’s something that anyone with your connections would do.

It’s not like you’re on a first-name basis with the freakin’ Avengers.

Your client is a young mother. You don’t know the details, but she didn’t want the child and had been kept against her will by a family. By the time you arrive to make the window, as swift as ever you collect her, hide, and begin the process of extraction. She’s terrified, and clutches her newborn, and moves slow. You don’t know what pain she’s in, but from what you can tell, it’s recent since her delivery, and she must be stronger than you to be moving with you. But you must keep quiet to evade those seeking you both, so you don’t confess your admiration to her.

You rarely work this high up in Manhattan, but from what you can tell, she’s desperate. Something about crossing a powerful family, but you’re not sure how that correlates to the bundle that she clutches at in her arms. Luckily this end of the city is so densely populated, as it’s easier to hide when there are others around. That’s what makes a good spy chase; being hidden in plain sight. Hundreds of thousands of people around you and your client; the best camouflage that money didn’t buy.

You’re crossing the street, briskly making the tail end of a walk light when you smell tyres, hear yells, and _gunshots_. Looking up, you barely make it in time, yanking the young mother by the fabric of her sweater onto the curb as a trio of black sedans roars past. How was it that rich, bad people all had the same cars? One of the windows opens, and in the split second that they pass, the person inside makes eye contact with you, with the woman you are helping, and you know.

You’ve been made.

“Come on!” you yell. You feel bad, but there’s no time to waste. “We’ve got to go!”

Pushing through the crowd is hard; nobody parts for you in everyday life and they sure as hell aren’t parting now. You try to muscle your way through, but they are resistant, and it’s slow. Eventually, you make it through to the nearest alleyway, and it’s empty enough to sprint.

“I - I can’t!” she wails, weeping. “Please,” she pleas, “take Jude.”

You turn back, about to bolster her, but you see the agony on her face. She’s made it this far, so recently after giving birth, but she leans against the building for support, her legs buckling underneath her. Rushing back, you scoop the baby from her arms. Grateful, she almost weeps, but it’s then she cries out in a shout of pain and falls to the earth beneath her.

There’s no noise of a gunshot, but you know what a silencer sounds like. You turn the way that she had fallen, holding Jude closer to your chest. Your heart beats faster when you find that you can’t see the killer at first, but then they come from the shadows. A white man, 40, dressed down from a suit stands there with a sardonic smile. The pistol in his hand is raised to the sky, waiting, and the way his feet are pointing, you know that you’re the next one to be shot.

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” he drawls. Boston accent.

“ _You_ killed her!” you shout. However loud you are, it’s still lost to the wail of the city around you both. 

He lowers the gun so it’s facing you, and you feel your breath catch. He starts to laugh and takes a step toward you. “And you took her from us. She was living a good life, you know. Best that money this side of the river could buy,” he shook his head in disbelief, “and you meddling bitch got her killed.”

Despite the pistol on you, you bite back. “She didn’t want your dirty money.”

“She could have had the life of a queen!” he roared, his other hand coming up to support the gun. You brace yourself, turning away so the baby in your arms is away from the gun’s line of sight. “I’m not to be crossed, don’t you know who I -,”

_BANG!_


	2. ii

He crumples to the pavement, the gun misfiring as he lands unceremoniously. The shot clatters off a dumpster and disappears into the alleyway, and you almost cry out in fear, afraid. Never in your life have you had such a night go so badly! Shakily, you fold back the blankets around the swaddle and peer inside. Jude sleeps on, unphased from the events that have transpired, exhaling and inhaling as normal. By the time you look to the mobster, there’s another man there.

“East Wind?” he says.

You blink because it’s _him_.

At this distance, you know it’s him from the marking on the vest, from the smears of red that you remember washing off with loofas back when you shared a shower. You know that voice, and hearing your code name from his mouth, it sends a chill down your spine. Only clients knew of that name, that, and people who spoke of ghost stories of the hero who carried people from danger like an Angel of Death.

“You saved me,” you breathe. He can’t hear you but saying it doesn’t make it feel any more real than it is.

Frank Castle nears, seemingly not looking your way, but instead at the fallen man he had taken down. The way he stalks around it, like a vulture inspecting a carcass is foreign to you, and you watch, silent. He kicks him over, and the face of the man is smothered in the pool of his red. He kicks him once more, but you look away at that, only hearing him when he spits.

You start to walk away. The contact on the outside is still expecting you at a strict time, even if you just had a delay. But you’re not three feet away when you hear him calling after you.

“You can’t go walk away like nothin’ happened,” he shouts. You stop in your tracks, still facing the way that you’re going.

“I’m not the kind of person like you.” You reply.

“There ain’t nobody else like me,” He fires back, and you can tell he’s getting impatient. “Look, lady. There are other guys, more guys like this pisshead - you ain’t safe to do what you do. I mean, all due respects.”

You feel a smile tug up on the corner of your lips. God, how you missed him. It was like returning to a thrill, a drug, an endorphin rush, something so very good and nice after going cold turkey, and it took all your power to stay where you were. You could hear his big combat boots thumping their way toward you, approaching. He seemed to slow as he neared, and for that, you were grateful.

“All due _respects_ ,” you draw the last word out, “I can take care of myself.”

He huffs. “Look, East Wind - you’re some hero, but -,”

“I’m not a hero!” you burst, turning to him. The hood falls off, and your face is unveiled.

“________,” he’s as disarmed as you, but unlike him and his guns, your weapon is your wits.

It catches Frank off guard; he almost takes a step back, but steels himself. This close, you can see uneven patches of stubble across his face, the way his eyes look raw and sore, the cuts up his forearms. There are more dings to his vest than ever; even the spray-painted skull looks morose. You try to keep it together, but you can’t break down. Not now, not here, and especially not with your dead client’s child in your arms, considering what the last words shared with Frank were about. A beat passes, and both of you stay quiet until the little one in your arms begins to fuss.

“Is that a -,” he begins.

“A baby, Frank,” you snap, diverting your attention to the child. In her wrap, she wriggles unhappily.

It seems to be that time where her small baby belly aches for sustenance, and unfortunately for you, there isn’t anything to quench her thirst on hand. In your time, you’ve taken care of many different ages of children, from this age to voting age, but you’re not sure if any stores sell formula this late at night.

“I know, I know,” you whisper, fussing over her, “it’s okay.”

Pulling out your phone with your spare hand, you try one-handedly to type. Apart from the fact it’s not your more dexterous hand, you’re tired, and can’t focus on searching for a nearby late-night bodega. You don’t notice Frank closing in until he’s taken your phone from under your nose. He completes the search quickly, and at this point, you’re more focused on taking care of the child in your arms than worrying about being this close to the estranged antihero slash the love of your life. That, and he’s getting smudges of red on your phone, but hey, you’re due for a new case anyway.

“There’s a place, about a block from here,” He says, quietly.

You look up in time to see him looking at you, and your breath catches; it’s so natural, and he’s so attractive, and you can’t help but yearn for him while he’s so close. You don’t say anything, just holding her close, unable to keep the eye contact with him. Frank Castle is a difficult man. He didn’t cry openly and shouted at the TV, he killed killers, had a feud with the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, and in all the time that you shared quarters he wasn’t the most open of all people. You can’t blame him, but now, it’s hard; you just want him back.

“Was this hers…?” he asks, looking to the woman.

“Yeah. I don’t usually…I didn’t even get her name,” you bite at your lip, feeling awful. You’ve never been this close to being caught, being killed, and it’s shaken you. You turn, taking your phone from Frank, and type a slow text to your contact, and walk away. “Lead the way. This girl’s hungry.”

He’s quiet, but he throws a jacket over his red-dirtied torso, hiding it. Once you both merge with the main thoroughfare of the city, he leads the way through the considerably less busy streets. It’s late, and yet the lights are still bright at this end of town. Frank moves toward a 7-11, and waits outside when you go in, and fill a basket with a tin of formula and the last doughnut on the shelf, half-stale from sitting there all day. The clerk who scans barely looks your way, tired, but you’re sure if a soccer mom saw you buying the formula, you’d get an earful of mommy-blog politics about it. But they ring you up, and you lead Frank to a Burger King, where you order a drink to sit at the table and start mixing up the formula in a paper cup for baby Jude as best as you can.

All the while, Frank is quiet.

It’s unnerving.

“…you know, I’m good at my job. And even if you didn’t show up, I would have been fine.” You talk, to fill the silence. If not, all you’d hear is the couple in the corner arguing about who cheated on who, and the probably teen hacker who types faster than you think at a beat-up laptop by the door. “But thanks. I’m just paying it forward - you won’t have to see me again.”

“Don’t go,” he says.

You pause, not sure you heard right. “Frank?”

“I fucked up,” his voice is gravelly, perhaps on the verge of emotion. If you didn’t know any better, this was as close to tears that you’d ever seen him. “It’s been hell without you. Can’t eat, or sleep. Max misses you. Karen stopped talking to me when she found out, same as Claire. Life sucks without you.”

“Frank…” you intone.

“I - I was after that family for the last month. Lousy bastards, the lot of them.” He growls. You don’t even realise that you’ve stopped mixing until Jude whines, and you keep at making the formula. You’re not a pro by a long shot, but it’s hard to focus on it, and Frank. “That guy got away from the scene, and when I saw - I had no clue you were East Wind.”

“East Wind is a fantasy made up by people who want a hero,” you mutter, testing the consistency. As you begin to feed Jude the mix, she laps it up, and you fixate on her, trying to focus on feeding her. “I’m not a hero.”

“But you are,” he rebuts. “To me. Baby, ________, please,” he pleads, leaning closer to you over the table. “I _need_ you. I’ve been to hell and back but being where you ain’t is worse.”

You’re quiet, silent, taking in what he’s saying. Jude finishes lapping up the mix, and you position her on your shoulder, close to your neck. The couple arguing has stopped talking so loudly, and the kid on the laptop has stopped clacking at the keys. Even the machinery and noises of the Burger King are quieter, or so it seems.

“I -,”

“________, sorry I’m late,” Misty, your contact comes in, her street-clothes looking just as worse for wear as you feel. “Traffic was hell. This is the kid?” She asks. She looks between you, and Frank, and purses her lips. “You’re goddamned lucky I’m off-duty now, and too tired to care that I’m seeing the Punisher before me,” she grits between her teeth, glaring at Frank. 

“Friend of yours?” he asks you.

“Have you been to the scene yet?” you ask her, and she nods.

“I’ve sent my guys that way, it’ll be taped up in no time,” she replies, and motions to Jude, where she’s snuggled against your chest. “I’ll collect this little one now. Direct the heat off you and whatnot.”

“Has anyone said you’re an angel?” You smile.

“They’ve said the opposite, but then again wasn’t Lucifer one of them?” she grins and reaches for the baby. You’re hesitant to relinquish her; she’s grown warm in proximity to you, and as soon as she’s in Misty Knight’s arms, you feel slightly empty, like something’s missing. Damn. You never got this attached. “I see you’ve been busy.”

“You’ll be needing this stuff,” you replace the formula in the bag the cashier gave you. With a nod and a silent goodbye, Misty doesn’t spend a minute more in the building.

“I know how much you can’t give you that,” Frank whispers, glum. He takes a deep breath, and exhaling starts to leave. But you can’t help it but reach to him, hold him from going.

“You’re right,” you reply. “You can’t give me that. But there’s more than one way to have a baby. And there are too many damn foster kids, homeless kids, kids in vulnerable spaces that need caring for before I can even think of having one myself.” You lick your lips, wetting them for further exposition, but Frank interrupts you, closing the distance across the table with his mouth on yours. It feels good, tastes like black coffee and smells like iron, but it doesn’t fail to disarm you. “Frank…” you moan.

“I’m an idiot for letting you go.” He says, quiet. Just to you. “Come home. Please.”

You nod. “Okay,” you agree. “But Frank…” you tell him, looking into his eyes. “With you, I’m always home.” 

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on Tumblr on as @chaotic--lovely, and if you want to request a fic, check out [@pendragonfics](https://pendragonfics.tumblr.com/request_conditions)! ʕ·ᴥ·ʔ✿


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